


Horsebow Moon, 1176

by dornishsphinx



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Gen, Our House Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:29:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25473148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornishsphinx/pseuds/dornishsphinx
Summary: Catherine is settling well into her new life, her new identity, and her new position. She doesn't quite know what to make of her taciturn new partner, though.But it's not as though she knows what to make of her old one either.Not anymore.
Relationships: Catherine & Cristophe Gaspard, Catherine & Rhea (Fire Emblem), Catherine & Shamir Nevrand
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Horsebow Moon, 1176

To Cassandra Rubens Charon, there had been three ways in which her Crest impacted her life and destiny. The first: it had made her a damn good fighter. The second: in direct contradiction, it meant she’d been trapped in a role she never wanted, one where she wasn’t  _ supposed  _ to be on the front lines, just in case it meant that a far more important line ended with her bleeding her guts out on the battlefield prior to spawning the next generation. And the third: it meant that whenever she needed a patch of bright weather, the rains would pour from the heavens. 

She’d never been able to prove the last point was Crest-related, of course. She and Cristophe had tried testing it out a few times back during their time as students of the Officer’s Academy, but given that they’d never been all that close with the big brains of their class and hadn’t really been sure how experimenting was supposed to work, they would inevitably get bored and give it up to go back and spar in the training grounds, or eat in the dining hall, or play dice, or whatever else took their fancy.

The first, Catherine still took pride in; her Crest drove through her blood, transforming herself and Thunderbrand into a lightning blast of sheer physicality and might on the muck and death of the battlefield. She had rid herself of the second point, both of and not of her own volition: a fugitive and criminal was nobody’s first choice for a match, but it wasn’t as though she’d ever dreamed of marrying some man and bearing children for the sake of House Charon. She’d understood her father’s consternation and attempts to make her see the political and noble importance of her future marriage, of course, had listened to his arguments and come to know each and every responsibility of the noble station he held so dear. She’d just not cared.

As for the third, the rains still came, and she found herself wondering if the weather today was her fault too. 

Great, fat droplets bounced down the stairs to the courtyard, building up into little rivers and waterfalls. The braver traders huddled under their stalls while the weaker willed among them had long since run for cover inside the main building. Just beside them, doing his best to not be noticed and told off for dereliction of duty, the gatekeeper had sidled just enough into the building to avoid being soaked through. The sound and sensation, a thrum, was so loud and pervasive that it felt a little like being sprayed with an aspergillum.

Her newly assigned partner didn’t seem to care about whether she got a light sprinkling though, peering out of the door like a cat determining whether it wanted to leave or not. 

Now that she thought about it, Shamir really was as standoffish as one of the strays that wandered around the monastery, barely interacting with anyone and staring at them like they were idiots when she did. And Catherine could swear she’d once caught her trying to catch insects on her dagger. 

The image brought a laugh to her lips.

“What are you laughing about?” asked the Dagdan cat.

“Oh, it’s nothing really.” She still had a grin on her face, her eyes crinkling. “How do you feel about cats?”

The Dagdan gave her a look, not even bothering to roll her eyes, and then turned her face back out to the sheets of rain. They were so thick, the mist hid the red cloth of the stalls from view.

“It’s coming down pretty heavy, huh? Sorry about that, I guess you’ll get soaked on your way.”

“Why are you apologising for the weather?”

“It always gets stormy like this when I want a spot of good weather. It’s the same for a lot of my family, actually. Pretty sure it’s related to our Crests.”

“You people blame everything on Crests,” the Dagdan muttered. It was at that moment that there was a bright flash from far away, and then a deep rumble overhead.

Catherine laughed again, heartily. Evidently deciding the downpour was too much of a bother to be traversed when she could just wait it out, Shamir came back inside and leant against one of the pillars. She pulled out her bow, bringing her foot down on the string to begin to disassemble it.

Well, she wasn’t having that. Even if this Shamir was cold, and taciturn, and everything Catherine wasn’t, Lady Rhea had assigned them as partners. Lady Rhea knew what she was doing, so she’d go along with it, even if they might never get along quite the same as she had with her old friends back in the Academy days.

Though maybe that wasn’t the best example of partnerships turning out well.

Not knowing how to guard herself from them when they were so fresh in her memory, images flooded her mind: Cristophe, damp and trussed up on the wooden cart pulling him through the mists and rain of Magdred Way, muttering nonsense about Lady Rhea being an infidel and heretic, his eyes filled with a horrible, fervent belief.  _ Cristophe _ , who had always been so pious and filled with religious fervour like his father, while she’d always been boisterous and the opposite of what her father wanted his heir to be. 

She still was the opposite of what he wanted her to be, of course, as a Knight of Seiros unable to succeed him, but this, being part of a plot to assassinate the very woman who was the apotheosis of all that was good and holy in Fódlan…

_ Cristophe. What went wrong in your life that you ended up there and I ended up here? _

It was something she didn’t want to dwell on too long, though, so she brought back a smile on her face and tried to get the conversation going again.

“You know, I’ve been wondering, how long have you been able to speak the language?”

“If you’re asking about the language of Fódlan, a while.” 

She didn’t elaborate. So, the short, sparse sentences were just choice then, and not language barriers. Huh. Catherine really wasn’t sure they were going to get along off the battlefield. Although, in that particular field…

“You know,” she said, trying another angle, “I wasn’t sure how well we’d work together, but I’d say our first mission was a success.”

“The objective was reached. So, yes. It was.”

Her words were clipped. Catherine didn’t bother waiting for an extended response. She was pretty sure there wasn’t going to be one coming.

“I’m serious. You’re pretty good with a bow. I wouldn’t be surprised if you could hit a fly at a hundred metres.”

“I wasn’t hired out of charity. I know how to do my job.” Shamir looked back at her, square in the eye, for the first time since they’d arrived back at the monastery and she’d shoved Catherine to the side, told her in that clipped way of hers to go give the report to Lady Rhea, and taken the prisoners down to the cells herself. “You’re not too bad with the sword, though. I thought you’d rely on that Relic of yours, but you’re just as good with regular steel. I guess you can back up all that boasting.” 

Catherine patted Thunderbrand’s hilt with a smile. It squirmed a little at her touch.

“That means something coming from you. You know, I can show you some hidden spots, if you’d like. I bet I know this place better than you.”

“I’ve been here longer than you,” she responded, in a matter of fact tone. She didn’t seem irritated, but she didn’t seem smug either. 

It was always hard to get a read on this one, or even get any reaction at all. Sure, Catherine appreciated it when someone was plain-spoken, not trying to hide away their true meaning in veils and misdirection like so many of the dignitaries who’d graced Castle Charon and the royal court in Fhirdiad with their slimy presences over the years, but it was like Shamir had no strong emotions at all. She was logical and cold and short with her words, as though she wanted every conversation over in as fast a way as possible. 

Especially when she was talking to Catherine.

“Sure, as a Knight of Seiros.” 

Though Shamir didn’t exactly fit the knightly ideal, Lady Rhea trusted her enough to add her to their ranks, and so she’d accept it. It did feel a little strange to think of her as one of them, though; a foreigner who had no belief in Lady Rhea’s divine favour, or the goddess and the faith, and made no attempt to hide it. She didn’t even attempt to dress herself in the proper goddess-blessed white that the image of the Shining Knights relied on. 

Honestly, Catherine was half-convinced that if she stepped into a patch of shade, she’d vanish entirely into the dark.

“As a Knight of Seiros, and therefore as someone who’s job is to ensure the Garreg Mach stays secure,” said Shamir. “Why would you know it better than I do?”

Catherine was about to retort that she’d been a student of the Officer’s Academy before she held herself back. That had been a different person. That had been Cassandra, and that person wasn’t who she was anymore.

“Oh yeah? I’ve found a whole bunch of secret passages in the knights’ quarters.”

Shamir crossed her arms. Her eyebrows furrowed, a tinge of annoyance colouring the expression which up until this point had been blank.

“I’ve scoped this monastery out a hundred times. I know every place an assassin could try and use as a bird’s nest. Most of the walls are hollow. There’s a whole underground market operating out of the tunnel sections that haven’t caved in.”

“An underground market! Why haven’t you informed Lady Rhea?!”

The Dagdan brought her knuckles up beneath her chin, like they propped up the small, quick smile which flashed over her face.

“Huh. I guess you don’t know it better than me.” The smile slipped away again, and Catherine got the odd sensation of trying to catch and preserve a snowflake in her hands. “The traders don’t exactly keep quiet about it. Maybe if you want to find out about these things, you should stay quiet and listen to people. Besides, Rhea never asked. Tell her yourself if you want a pat on the head. It’s my contract to do as she says, and kill who she wants dead, not eliminating things  _ you _ want gone.”

“That’s  _ Lady  _ Rhea. Don’t be so disrespectful.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Lady Rhea. Sure.”

“And you buy from them?”

She shrugged, as if she couldn’t be bothered to say, “Why not?” out loud. Catherine was really getting sick and tired of all these nonchalant shrugs and cold statements.

“Are you really going to just stand there and fuss around with your bow until the storm is over? Come on, the dining hall is just up there. Let’s grab a bite to eat.”

Shamir looked back down at her bow, then back at Catherine.

“All right.”

Knowing she wasn’t going to get anything else out of her, she still took it as a victory that Shamir had agreed at all.

They made their way to the dining hall, pushed past the milling students all talking and gossiping with each other, grabbed plates, and found themselves a seat away from the others. She only realised that she’d pulled them to where she used to sit with the other Lions when she was already in her usual seat, Shamir directly in front of her. It was where Cristophe had always sat.

They’d once been so close, in mind and spirit, even closer than the other Lions. Goddess, but those had been simpler times. Cristophe wouldn’t even be the first among their number to… 

“You’re looking moody.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Shamir’s eyes bored into her. All of Catherine’s voracious hunger left her like it had been blown away by the wind, and she played with the fork before putting it back down and looking directly across the table. 

“What is it that you’re asking, exactly?” 

“Just wondering if I should be prepared to put an arrow in your neck if you decide to break him out before the archbishop has him executed.”

She’d been doing her best to not think about the fate that lay before Cristophe Gaspard.

“Well?”

“You don’t need to worry. I’ve made my decision.”

“And that is?”

There had been a few moments, as they’d moved so very slowly through the fog of Magred Way on the way back to the Oghma Mountains, where she’d wondered if she could just punch some sense into her old friend with her fists. That maybe she could slap him across the head with Thunderbrand’s hilt, and knock from his head whatever poison that group had fed him to make him despise a woman such as Lady Rhea. That she could save him from this fate. Once, she’d come close to straying to a horrible, despicable thought: that she might pull him from the cart and run away with him, two fugitives running together, for the rest of their lives.

Whenever she’d come close, though, she’d seen that horrible, fervent belief in his eyes and known such thoughts for what they were: a betrayal of the holiest and most wonderful woman she’d ever known.

She’d always been a believer, but now, having met her, having seen her come across the battlefield in elegance and splendour to give the touch of mercy to her followers and to her foes, sometimes she couldn’t help but love the archbishop more than the goddess herself. 

Saying such a thing out loud would no doubt disconcert Lady Rhea, and no doubt would be decried as sacrilegious if she said it in front of a monk of Seiros, but it was just how she felt. When she’d lain in agony, bleeding and dying from a great red gash across her stomach, sure it was the end and that all her father’s warnings and worst fears had come to pass, Lady Rhea’s arms had been warmer than those of the distant goddess. The setting sun against her back had been like haloed light from where her unworthy head had been allowed to nestle against her chest as they made their way back to safety. She wondered if she’d have been able to hear Lady Rhea’s heart beating if blood hadn’t pounded louder than a war-drum in her ears.

Lady Rhea had saved her life. Was it not fitting that she hand it back in service, in gratitude, in love and adoration?

Was it not  _ right _ ?

And so, she’d decided. Cristophe Gaspard had left his ideals with those maniacs who railed against Lady Rhea, but Catherine of the Holy Knights would ignore her imperfect ideals, those thoughts that were so easily corrupted, and give herself entirely to the woman who truly knew what was best, for justice, for Fódlan, and for the world.

“I’ve decided to leave the decision to the goddess.”

“To Lady Rhea, you mean.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. My ideals are Lady Rhea’s ideals, and Lady Rhea’s ideals are the ideals of the goddess.”

All in synchronisation, like the voices in a choir: the soft light of healing magic and gentle arms; the goddess, more distant in her heavenly home than lightning itself; and herself, laying the fierce strikes of Thunderbrand into their enemies like a plough into the ground.

“Honestly, you’re right,” she said. “I wasn’t sure what to do about Cristophe. We were practically partners when we were at the Academy together. If we ever had to pair off, it was him and me. I’d never met his family until we came for him, but he talked about them so much, it’s like I knew them all already. I couldn’t figure out the right thing to do.”

She leant back.

“So, I decided to leave the decision to them.”

Shamir’s eyes were on her again, searching for weakness like she had searched for chinks in Gaspard armour.

“You’ll have to do better than woolly words about loyalty and faith to convince me. If you decide to switch allegiance to your old friend instead, I’m giving you fair warning that I’m prepared to take you out.”

“You can’t be serious. You, lecturing me about loyalty to Lady Rhea, when you’re just a mercenary here for the pay.”

Shamir’s eyes narrowed at her again, but she continued to eat, steadily, unaffected.

“Yes, I’m a mercenary. One with a contract, and a debt to pay. I have no cause, or old friends who I would not hesitate to kill if they tried to assassinate my employer. I don’t base my decisions and loyalties on faith.”

“I fight only for Lady Rhea and the goddess. Not for my own glory, and certainly not for anyone else. I made that decision long ago. Have I doubted some of the actions I’ve taken in the past? Yes. Have I doubted the actions I took on her behest? No. Would I betray her? Never.”

Shamir looked up from the plate, staring at her in silence with one of those impossible to read expressions, before going back to her food.

“I’ll still be watching you until the prisoner has been executed.”

“I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”

Shamir stared at her, the furrow in her brow returning, before she finished off her food, stood up, and left the table. The knife and fork were laid down in an improper way, but even if she recognised it, it wasn’t as though she was a noble to care about such things. She tossed her own down haphazardly, and looked out the doors to the outside.

There were those who called rain the tears of the goddess. It looked like she was weeping even more desperately than before. 


End file.
